


Strays

by babyblueavenger



Series: Mystery Nerds AU [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Brief Mentions of Animal Abuse, Brief Mentions of Homelessness, Pure Unadulterated Fluff, So Cute You Can't Handle It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:16:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5475893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyblueavenger/pseuds/babyblueavenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan, in all good conscience, can't leave a stray. He knows that feeling all too well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strays

**Author's Note:**

> So I've already dragged you guys through emotional hell with possible deadly disease, bittersweet reunions, self-loathing, and a man dealing with PTSD in the worst possible ways. 
> 
> I figured, what the hell, it's Christmas. I'll give you a little levity.

When he heard the crash in the alley, Stan Pines’ defenses immediately went up. Even though it’d been three weeks since he moved in with Ford, and the worst thing he’d encountered since moving in was the occasionally gnome knocking their trash cans over and growling at him, he still had his habits. Alleys, especially dark, out of the way ones without a lot of people around were not places you generally wanted to hear resounding crashing. Or any kind of noise really. Nothing good generally hid in dark alleys. 

Every ounce of common sense and street smarts he’d obtained from his ten-year stint on the streets screamed at him to keep on walking. He stuck around, he was liable to get his ass kicked, and he’d have no one to blame for that but his own idiot self. He wasn’t about to go through that again. One trip to the hospital after accidentally stumbling upon gang activity and getting a knife to the belly was enough, thank you very much.

But then he heard another crash. It wasn’t the sort of crash that came from gang fights or even a mugging, the sounds of large, clunky human bodies slamming against each other, in a harried, ruthless fight for dominance. This was…smaller. Somehow more delicate, if crashing garbage cans could be described in such a way. His heightened sense of self-preservation was no match for his highly piqued curiosity. 

Still, he pulled his two bags of groceries in a little closer to his chest. Just in case he was wrong, and these just happened to be small, delicate gang members or something.

He slowly came upon the trash cans at the back of the alleyway, and was more than a little relieved to see no humans there, threatening or otherwise. In fact, there was no trace of any human coming back here for some time. He raised an eyebrow. Living with Ford for three weeks in this weird little town had taught him that, while there wasn’t always a mundane explanation for strange things going on, there certainly always was an explanation in general. 

A quick survey of the area revealed there were no adequate places for any human to hide. The cans were shoved together tightly, and their lids were popping off, showing they were stuffed to the gills with a foul-smelling assortment of junk that at one point resembled food. Only one bag sat outside of a can, leaking a greenish-brown liquid that Stan thought prudent not to think about. Just as he thought he was going to have to tell Ford all about this strange breed of self-aware trashcans that may or may not be planning an uprising, he heard a small sound. 

It was…a growl?

Then he saw the one stray bag twitch, and the growl increased in volume. Soon, it was coupled with a tiny, desperate whine. Stan set down his groceries (as far away from the leaking stray bag as he could) and moved down a bit to see behind the bag.

There, tugging with all the strength it had in its tiny body, was a puppy. It couldn’t have been more than a month old, at least. It was mostly brown, with a big black patch spread out across its back. One of its ears flopped forward, while the other stood erect. Its face was laced with determination as it pulled and yanked, and Stan realized it was trying to pull the bag open, probably to get at the rancid food inside. 

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, the poor little thing lost its grip on the bag, and fell back with a surprised yelp. It landed awkwardly, tripping over its own small legs, but immediately got back up, shook itself, and spared only one look of what Stan assumed was canine frustration before heading back over to the bag. It was then that the puppy seemed to notice it was being watched, and looked up at him. 

Its ears pressed back against its head, and, with a fearful whimper, it backed away, until it’d pressed itself into the building the cans were placed against. 

When one looked at Stan, one would never take him for much of a bleeding heart. A strange man who’d been to prison three times, could lie with the best of them, and shared a creepy cabin in the woods with his equally strange brother was not someone you looked at and thought of as compassionate. Not in the slightest.

But Stan Pines’ heart did indeed go out to this little puppy. He’d seen many in a similar situation when he’d been living out of his car. So many helpless animals that had been born into the hard life of a stray. Or worse, had been callously abandoned by people with apparent rocks for hearts, who couldn’t be bothered to properly care for these creatures that depended on them for everything. 

If anything, Stan empathized with the ones who’d obviously been abandoned, looking too well-fed, too well-groomed, and too trusting of people to have been born into a life of hardship, even more than regular strays. Being cast out by someone who was supposed to take care of you because you weren’t what they wanted was a feeling he understood all too well. 

At the time, he couldn’t really have done much about it. When you were struggling to feed yourself regularly, you couldn’t do much for every poor, starving animal you saw. 

But looking down at this small, defenseless little thing, staring up at him like it was waiting to be hurt, because it was too small to defend itself, or too young to understand why things like him kept hurting it anyway, he realized there was finally something he could do. 

He kneeled down on the cold dirt, silently praying he wouldn’t get that garbage juice all over his pants. If this didn’t work, he’d rather come out of it clean at least. 

The puppy backed away a little further as Stan closed in. Stan just gently said, “Hey, little guy, it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt ya. Know what? I bet I got something better than that garbage on me. You hungry, buddy?”

Leaning back a bit, Stan stuck a hand in his bag, fishing around until he pulled out a Slim Jim. They’d been a staple of his nomadic diet over the years, and an impulse purchase now, but he figured he could spare it on someone who needed it more. Probably wasn’t the healthiest thing he could feed a puppy, but he was desperate. He ripped open the wrapper with his teeth, and tore off a chunk with his fingers. As he moved his hand to hold it out, the puppy took another tentative step back. Stan pulled his hand away, and calmly said, “It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay. It’s good. You want some?” 

Miraculously, the puppy took a cautious step forward and started to sniff. It cast several looks up at Stan, then back at the bit of Slim Jim, before, suddenly, in a blur of brown, it snatched the Slim Jim out of his hand, leaving behind a smear of grease on Stan’s fingers. Stan couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, good stuff, right?” He tore off another chunk, and held it out again, a bit bolder than before. “Want some more?” 

This time, the puppy showed no fear as it gobbled up the hunk of meat, even sticking around to lick the grease left behind. Stan laughed again. “I can relate,” he said, tearing off another bit. “I used to live on these things. Probably hardened by arteries as soon as they were in my mouth, but I figure you’ll be okay.” 

The puppy was only concerned with the food, to the point where, when the new meat was gone and the grease licked clean, it actually started nibbling on Stan’s fingers a bit, looking for something else. Stan took the opportunity to move his fingers down a little, and start scratching the little twerp under the chin. 

That seemed to startle the puppy for a moment, but from the way it practically melted against the scratches a few seconds later, it wasn’t unwelcome. Stan took an even bigger risk, moving his other hand to the puppy’s back. He gently placed it down, and started stroking and patting. The little squirt seemed to enjoy that even more. It was practically swooning underneath all the pets. 

As the puppy enjoyed the attention being heaped on it, Stan felt a cold draft of air whip down the ally. He noticed errant piles of slush leftover from the sporadic snow flurries the town had seen over the last few weeks. This wasn’t the kind of weather a full-grown man should be having to experience, let along a tiny, vulnerable little thing like a puppy. 

He looked back down at the puppy. It came out of its cuddle-haze long enough to look up at Stan with small, hopeful brown eyes. It licked the hand that was still scratching under its chin. Its tiny tail started wagging a bit.

Stan let out a sigh. Well, he and Ford had always wanted a puppy as kids. As he gently picked it up, marveling at how much it trusted him when it didn’t even squirm a little, he muttered out loud, “I really hope Ford’s position on dogs hasn’t changed.”

The puppy let out a squeak of a bark in response, and wagged its tail harder. Or really, Stan should start saying, she started wagging her tail. He didn’t know much about dog biology, but from this angle, it was easy to tell.  
\--------------------------  
Ford always could tell when Stan was lying his ass off. You didn’t share a womb and a room and a life with someone for eighteen years and not learn how to tell when they were lying to you.

So, when Stan came in, his arms laden with the groceries he’d gone out to get more than an hour ago, and his jacket looking…more bulgy than usual, he knew something was up. Stan denied it, but he knew.

And then he heard the bark. Coming directly from the vicinity of Stan’s zipped and bulgy jacket.

“Did…did your jacket just bark,” Ford asked.

Stan looked him straight in the face, his mouth set in a hard line and his eyes wide and shifty, before muttering, “No. That…that was me. Woof.”

Ford rolled his eyes. “Seriously, Stan. What’s in your jacket?”

“One of those chest-bursting aliens from that flick with Sigourney Weaver. Who knew they barked.”

“Stan.”

“By the way, I’m pretty sure the trashcans in town are gaining sentience. You might wanna go check that out, warn the gnomes before the uprising begins.”

“Stan…”

Stan was inching further towards the kitchen as he said, “No, I mean it, they’re dangerous. Would have taken my leg if I hadn’t kicked every single one of their trashcan asses. Well, this was fun, we really should talk more about this later.”

But then, the bulge in Stan’s jacket shifted, and, out from his collar, popped the head of a small dog. Even though he’d kind of expected that already, it still shocked Ford, especially when the little thing let out a tiny bark of excitement, its little pink tongue lolling out as it panted enthusiastically. Its little head turned every way, taking in its new surroundings. From the look of the lump Ford assumed was the rest of its body, it very much wanted to get out and explore these strange new surroundings, sticking its nose in everything. 

Ford rubbed his hand down the length of his face, pulling his glasses down a bit. 

Stan gave him a small grin, and quickly said, “What did I tell ya, chest aliens. Humanity is doomed. I lived a good life. See ya!” He began to turn to leave.

“Stanley, do not,” Ford said, his tone sharp. Stan stopped like he was frozen in his tracks. Ford sighed and said, “What, exactly, possessed you?”

Stan set the grocery bags on the floor, and unzipped his jacket. The puppy practically tumbled out into his arms, and looked downright enthused to be there. It looked about the room, amazement and wonder written all over its face. Ford found it interesting that it sat so still, though, and he realized it was because it was too busy enjoyed the pets Stan was administering to its head with great zeal. 

Stan looked up at him pleadingly, and said, “Come on, Sixer, have a heart. She was all alone in an alleyway because some jerkwad dumped her back there, and she was eating out of the garbage. The garbage, Ford!”

Ford looked back down at the puppy, which seemed to be making itself quite at home in Stan’s arms. Every now and then, the little pink tongue would shoot out, licking at the air. 

“And she acted like she hadn’t eaten in days, so I gave her some of a Slim Jim and she really liked it, and I knew I couldn’t just leave her out there. With how cold it’s been? Nah, she wouldn’t stand a chance. I had to bring her here, Ford, it was the only decent thing to do!”

Ford sighed again. He knew there was no point in fighting this. He couldn’t throw that puppy out now, even if he wanted to. “I guess she can stay.” He pointed a finger at Stan semi-threateningly and added, “But if she squats in my house, I’m rubbing your nose in it.”

Stan blinked a few times, before saying, earnestly, “Okay, that’s fair.”

Ford smiled a little at that, and closed the distance between himself and Stan. He reached out a hand, and let the puppy sniff it before giving her a nice rub on the head. She licked his fingers in return. “So, what’s her name,” he asked.

“After that chest-burster comment, I’m really starting to lean towards Ripley,” Stan said. “After all, what better name to give a scrappy little survivor that don’t take no one’s guff?”

“Sounds good to me,” Ford said. He chuckled as the newly-christened Ripley started nibbling on his fingers, tiny grunts of effort escaping her. “I mean, look at her. She’s downright ruthless. We have to make sure not to cross her, or she’ll shoot us into space.”

“Definitely,” Stan said. He bent down, letting Ripley slide from his arms and onto the floor. She immediately began trotting around the room, eventually sticking her snout under a nearby pile of papers and sniffing vigorously. After a moment of just watching her inspect her new surroundings, Stan added, “Betcha Dad would go into a pissy grumbling fit if he knew we finally had that dog he never wanted us to have.”

“Yeah, probably.” 

“…wanna take some pictures of her and mail them to him?”

“…I’ll go find my camera.”


End file.
